Embers of the Broken River

Chapter 17 Wang Shi's Farewell

The day after the fire, Jia Xian sat down at the table and reached out to touch the teapot.

He paused the moment his fingers touched the side of the teapot. The teapot was cold. Not because the tea was cold, but because there was no water in it. He shook the teapot, and heard the soft rustling sound of dry tea leaves rubbing against the sides, like fine sand scattered on paper. He lifted the lid and looked inside; at the bottom, there was only a ring of old tea stains, accumulated over countless days, dried and crusted.

Every morning, Wang Shi would fill the teapot. He would boil water, then pour in last year's aged tea, filling it exactly two fingers above the bottom of the pot. Jia Xian didn't know much about tea, but he was used to feeling the pot in the morning; it was warm, not scalding, meaning the water had cooled slightly after boiling before brewing, and then sat for a while longer before being brought in. Wang Shi had timed it perfectly, placing the pot on the corner of the table, spout facing outwards, handle pointing towards Jia Xian's right hand.

The teapot is empty today. It's so light you can hear the echo from the inside of the pot.

He put the pot back in its place, stood up, and left the duty room. In the courtyard, people were carrying away the leftover timber from last night's fire. Several laborers were shoveling rubble on the ruins of the west corridor, the shovels scraping and grinding with a harsh sound. The sky was overcast, the clouds hanging low, as if another rain was yet to fall.

He walked through the corridor and pushed open the door to the servants' quarters.

The servants' quarters were messier than usual, not from a fire, but from the piles of moving luggage scattered all over the floor. An unwashed pot sat on the stove, the bottom coated with last night's rice paste, now dried into a grayish-white crust. A kitchen knife lay across the cutting board, a dark red rust clinging to its blade. Several stacks of old cotton quilts, the servants' winter bedding, were piled in the corner, now being unearthed and prepared to be moved.

A servant squatted in front of the stove, tying up his bedding roll. Jia Xian recognized him; his surname was Liu, and he was in charge of the lamp oil in the west corridor, usually working night shifts with Wang Shi. The hemp rope on the bedding roll was tied with two tight knots, and Liu was pressing the luggage down with his knees, tightening the rope ends.

"Where is Wang Shi?"

Liu, the handyman, looked up at him, his hands still moving. The hemp rope creaked as it cut into the cotton wadding of the bedding roll.

"I'm gone."

Jia Xian didn't hear clearly. "What do you mean 'gone'?" He heard his own voice sound calm, not calm, but as if the wind blowing in through the crack in the door had blew away the last words of his sentence.

Liu the laborer tied the rope, stood up, and patted the dust off his knees. His palms were covered in red marks from the hemp rope, which, mixed with the dust, looked like dirt embedded in the lines of his palms.

"The person who was blocking the tea tray doesn't need to come anymore." He paused. "Even if it wasn't a direct order from the superior, the subordinates know what to do."

Liu, the handyman, shouldered his bedding roll, lowered his head, and took a few steps toward the door. He then added, "He came to pack his things early this morning, but the gatekeeper stopped him. He said his name was no longer on the roster." The bedding roll weighed down on his shoulder, making his voice very low.

Jia Xian stood at the door for a while. He didn't ask any more questions, then turned and left.

People moving in the corridor were carrying bundles of documents out. Someone bumped into his shoulder while carrying a box, causing the box to hit the wall and its contents to rattle.

The person who hit him didn't apologize; they were too busy to care. That's always how it is when you move; everyone's rushing to move their own stuff, and nobody stops to look at someone standing in the middle of the hallway.

Jia Xian stepped back against the wall, making way for the crowd. He stood there, suddenly unsure where to go. The Chongtian Division was still there, but he knew some things were gone. Gone. A servant was dismissed more easily than dusting a windowsill.

Chongtiansi was moving. The things in the duty room were in a mess. His desk was piled with odds and ends that had been moved from other rooms: a stack of old account books, a broken inkstone, and a copper lamp that had run out of oil.

His own calculations were buried under clutter, the paper rolls bound with hemp rope squeezed out of shape. He moved the clutter aside, pulled out the calculations, and wiped the dust off the paper with his sleeve. Then he walked around the duty room.

He wasn't just looking for something. He was looking for a reason to prove that Wang Shi had left something behind after "leaving." But he didn't know what he was looking for. Until he walked to the corner of the worktable.

The worktable was where he usually did calculations. It was an old wooden table, its surface riddled with tiny grooves from counting rods. The legs were worm-eaten, and one side against the wall was somewhat rotten. His counting rods lay scattered on the table, black and white, still in the same arrangement he had left behind the night before. A few pages of drafts were piled at the corner of the table, topped with a broken brick—the one he had placed there himself yesterday.

Then he saw the wooden sign.

It wasn't on the table. It was in the gap between the corner of the table and the wall, as if it had fallen in accidentally. He reached out to grab it, his fingertips touching the edge of the wood, and pulled it out with two fingers.

A wooden plaque, about the size of an index finger. The wood was a branch from the old locust tree in the backyard, roughly carved with burrs on the edges. Two characters were carved on the front: "Triangle".

The strokes are crooked and distorted, like a child's scribbles. The character "三" (three) is carved lightly, with the first horizontal stroke much longer than the two below it; the character "角" (corner) is carved halfway through, perhaps because the knife became dull, and the vertical hook in the middle is broken off, as if the effort was exhausted at the end. There is a shallow knife mark on the back, which was made when testing the knife; it is not deep and is right in the densest part of the wood grain.

He flipped the wooden sign over and over again. His fingers traced from the first horizontal stroke of the character "三" (three) to the last vertical stroke of the character "角" (corner). The splinters pricked his fingertips, the sting was slight, like being touched by a needle.

He suddenly remembered that Liu, the handyman, said Wang Shi was carrying an old bundle when the gatekeeper stopped him; inside, besides clothes, was only a carving knife. The gatekeeper rummaged through the bundle, saw the knife, and asked Wang Shi why he was carrying it. Wang Shi said it was for self-defense. The gatekeeper said, "What does a handyman need for self-defense?" and confiscated the knife.

The wooden plaque was the only thing Wang Shi ever carved, and he never had the chance to give it to anyone personally after it was finished. He left it in a corner of his workbench, waiting for Wang Shi to find it himself.

He gripped the wooden plaque tightly in his palm. His knuckles turned white from the pressure, and he could feel the wood grain leaving indentations on his hand. The splinters dug into his flesh, and the sharp edges of the wood pressed against the softest part of his palm.

Then he pressed the wooden plaque back against his chest, placing it alongside the manuscript paper, his father's "center of gravity," and the old records salvaged from the fire. His father spoke of the center of gravity. The manuscript paper represented questioning. The old records were memories. And the wooden plaque—what was it? He thought for a moment. Someone had seen him. Someone had seen him without him even noticing.

He stood there, four things stacked together on his chest. The manuscript paper was dry, the wooden plaque was rough, the old records were burnt, and the center of gravity was warm. The people moving from the Chongtian Division continued their work in the corridor; some were calling out names, some were moving boxes, and some were sweeping. No one noticed that this accountant stood in front of the worktable, his hand on his chest, motionless for a long time.

The move lasted all day. By evening, the movers had finally left. The corridor was empty, with scraps of paper, straw rope, and broken rims of earthenware pots scattered on the ground. His teapot was still empty. He went to the kitchen and boiled some water, then filled the teapot.

He carried the teapot back to the duty room and poured a cup into the teapot. The water was too hot, so he didn't drink it. He just watched the steam rise from the rim of the cup, just like the ripples on the cold tea when Wang Shi brought the tea tray yesterday, spreading outwards in circles, dissipating before reaching the rim. He took the wooden plaque out of his pocket and placed it next to the teapot.

The wooden plaque and teapot sat side by side on the table. The spout faced outwards, and the handle was aimed at his right hand. The rough edges of the wooden plaque were softened by his sweat, and the two characters "Triangle" were embedded in the wood grain at varying depths.

Dusk fell outside the window, and the light in the duty room dimmed. He added the remaining oil to the lamp, lit it, and the flame flickered in the wind before settling. He didn't pick up the wooden plaque. He simply watched it lying beside the lamplight.

The wooden sign has no spout and therefore no water will flow. But its position, with the spout pointing in the opposite direction, seems to be saying on behalf of someone who is no longer here, "The tea is ready."

Jia Xian sat for a long time, then picked up his pen and continued copying the calculations. The numbers on the calculations were arranged line by line, connecting with the seventh line of the trigonometric diagram. The watchman's clapper struck after the second watch outside the window. Then it struck after the third watch. His hands were writing, but his ears were waiting, waiting for the footsteps that would never sound again.